


Long Live the Malachites

by chessurK



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Founders Era, Ghosts, Marauders era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chessurK/pseuds/chessurK
Summary: Ever since she was a child, Imen Hedgepath had been plagued with vivid nightmares. Her parents had taken her to as many mediwizards and healers they could afford but nothing ever worked. They tried all kinds sleeping draughts and charms and spells. Nothing worked.Eventually, she had to learn to adapt. By the time she was set to go off to Hogwarts, she had trained herself to wake up silently instead of with a scream. It was hard. The nightmares were still horrifying no matter what she or her parents did. She had gotten more and more used to them over the years but that didn't make them any less troubling.The first night of her seventh year she was preparing to go to sleep and experience the nightmares once again. And yet, the never appeared. For the first time in seventeen years Imen Hedgepath had a dreamless sleep. Seventh year was starting off wonderfully until she woke to a ghost at the end of her bed claiming to be the one and only Margaret Malachite, fifth founder of Hogwarts.Imen's seventh year at Hogwarts proves to be like none before as she learns she is descended from a missing Hogwarts founder and—with the help of her life long friend—is sent on the mission of a lifetime.
Relationships: Salazar Slytherin/Original Character(s), Salazar Slytherin/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	1. 6 Sólmánuður, 30 years after Unity

_Today is the last day of my life. The day I've been dreading since I first heard news of the betrothal from Father. Tomorrow on Sun's Day I will be wed to a man nearly twice my age whom I have never met. Father says his name is Lincoln Malachite and that he is a very wealthy landowner in the Kingdom of England. Mother, who got to meet my betrothed before I, says that he is a very handsome man and that I am very lucky._

_I do not think I am lucky, at all._

_I do not wish to go to England. I do not wish to be wed. Despite my discontent towards Mother and Father, I do not hate them but I do not want to stay. I want to explore the world. Go on adventures. But to chose between my betrothed and my family, I would much rather stay in Rogaland than travel to the land of the filthy Anglo-Saxons with my filthy soon-to-be husband._

_May Frigg help me. May she curse this wedding. Curse this wretched man._

_Mother would tell me I'm being ridiculous. That I have not even seen the man. Not even a portrait. I do not know what he looks like or what he is like. I know he's seen mine. Father had one commissioned before he even told me of a possible suitor._

_He simply could not wait to get rid of me. Get me out of the castle and away from the family. To bury my name in history so no one will know of Harald Kristjansson's peculiar daughter who was supposedly cursed by the Gods. Which was nonsense. I haven't been cursed by them. If anything, I've been blessed._

_That's what Mother tells me. She was blessed too. Blessed with_ fjölkyngi _. Blessed with magic. The Gods gave her power. Power that she is too cowardly to use. Power that she passed on to me, but not my brothers. Power that unfortunately for me, and the rest of my family, likes to lash out in unimaginable ways when I get angry or upset. Power that I'm not entirely sure how to tap into._

_Everything happens on a whim. I cannot control when the chandelier breaks. I cannot control with the glass shatters. I cannot control when_ they _visit me at night. They: the strangers that come to me in my dreams. I know their names, but I don't know how. They are unfamiliar and strange but they seem like home._

_Mother thinks these are visions. That I am seer. Father doesn't know. Eirik and Halfdan, my brothers, like to tease me about them. Calling them my 'imaginary friends.'_

_Godric the brave. Donned in red and surrounded by fire with a lion at his side and a mighty sword in his hand._

_Helga the kind. Donned in yellow and flowing through a field surrounded by badgers with a golden cup held gently between her fingers._

_Rowena the wise. Donned in blue and floating in the air with an eagle at her wings and a diadem atop her dark, ruly hair._

_Salazar the sly. Donned in green and standing on a still lake, a serpent twisting around his feet and a magnificent ring adorning his finger._

_And then I see myself in a way that I am not familiar. I am older. I have grown into my body. I seem more sure of myself than ever. I am powerful. I am in control. I'm always donned in auburn and standing before a magnificent forest with a vixen playing beside me. Around my neck sits Mother's necklace, an item Father can never get her to remove._

_I wish I could go to them. Go to_ her _. To future me. Run away from home, from Lincoln, to find them. But Mother says I must wait. That it is my future and I cannot rush it or force it to happen._

_I wish I could._

_Sincerely,_  
 _Revna Haraldsdottir  
_ _soon to be Malachite_


	2. Fire Whiskey for the Way

**(** 1 September, 1971 **)**

**Boisterous laughter echoed into the surrounding trees, startling the mostly invisible thestrals as they carted students up the familiar path to Hogwarts.** Inside the carriage was a group of seventh years both excited and stressed for their final year at Hogwarts. 

Fedya and Fyodor, the Slytherin and Gryffindor twins, were the pseudo-leaders of the little group of friends and their laughs were the loudest. Both were deadly gorgeous and some of the most popular kids at Hogwarts. Most everyone wanted to be them or be with them. Their mother, Professor Ismailova, was just like them and funded any of their habits. She even let them, and the rest of the group, get away with pretty much anything they wished. Including hiding out in her office when they didn't want to go to class. 

Across from the twins sat Ophelia Goings, the Hufflepuff of the group. She was hunched over in her seat, her face pressed into against her knees. While no one could hear any noise coming out of her mouth, her shoulders shook violently with silent laughter. She shot up, gasping for air with the biggest smile on her. Her large kinky curls shook atop her head in wild disarray that the group was used to. Every year, Ophelia's mothers would try to tame her hair into a braid but every year, without a doubt, her hair would have escaped its bonds before they even reached the castle. This year was no different. 

Beside her, the resident Ravenclaw, Imen Hedgepath, was being forced to eat Ophelia's hair. She had titled from leaning against the back of the seat to leaning against Imen as she wheezed silently. She had barely noticed Ophelia move at first, she was too busy wiping the joyous tears from her eyes and smudging her mascara as laughed with the group. Her laugh turned to a sputter as she tried to wipe Ophelia's hair off her tongue and pushed the still laughing girl away from her. Everyone fell into a deeper laugher. Fyodor's laugh turned silent whilst Ophelia's returned full force.

The group's ride up to Hogwarts was usually joyous. They made it their mission to get all of the angst and bad vibes from the summer out during the ride on the Hogwarts Express so they could be free and happy once they got to Hogsmeade and have a wonderful time with their friends before classes started and they were forced to stress about NEWTs. 

This particular trip up to Hogwarts, their last trip up to Hogwarts (a thought none of them wanted to think about), had been particularly _giggly_. It was most likely a mixture of the typical teenage sleep deprivation, the eight-hour train ride, and the bottles of firewhiskey Professor Ismailova had given them on the train as a "last first-day present". Two rather large bottles of the magic whiskey had been emptied by the four that took the train.

When they met up with Ophelia in Hogsmeade, Fedya pulled another bottle out of her bag as everyone drunkenly cheered before clambering into their carriage. 

Said bottle now sat half-empty between Beau Wesley's thighs with his Slytherin tie wrapped around the neck. Beau himself was laid flat against the carriage floor. He had been quickly voted out of the actual seats by Fyodor and Ophelia, not that he minded. He much preferred the floor. Here he could lay down and not worry about eating hair like Imen. 

Beau was arguably the drunkest of the bunch. He was also the one that threw the carriage into a laughing fit. What he said hadn't actually been funny, especially not funny enough to garner the intensity of laughs that it did.

What it should have gotten was an incredulous guffaw, some strange looks, and maybe a snort or two. Instead, it got loud, intense, long-lasting laughter. Occasionally, the teens would be able to calm themselves down for a moment. Then, someone would make eye contact or the silence would reign for a little _too_ long and it was back full force. 

When the five friends would look back on their seventh year they would think about that carriage ride. Of the empty bottles filled with their hopes and dreams and the bodies warm with firewhiskey. Of the annoying laughter and the breathless feeling that consumed them whenever they tried to calm themselves. Of the single word that managed to set them off: 

_Penis_.

* * *

They had been so caught up in their immature, drunken noises that they didn't even notice when the carriage stopped in front of Hogwarts. Beau barely noticed the thestrals impatient huffing as they waited for the students to get off so they could leave. They only realized something was off when Professor Whitby yanked the door open, startling them all. 

The five let out a scream of shock. On instinct, Beau sat up and threw the half-empty bottle of firewhiskey at his Potions Master. Fortunately, Beau had terrible aim when he was sober and even worse when he was drunk. They all watched, almost in slow motion, as the bottle soared past Whitby's face. The neck of the bottle brushed against his ear as drops of the precious alcohol dripped onto his robes. 

It shattered against the ground a few yards away from the carriage. Glass scattered in every direction. Hagrid would not be happy about that. But it was better the ground than Whitby's face.

Silence reigned among the six. They all stared off at the distant bottle and watched as the earth slowly absorbed the drink. Like the flash, Whitby shot his head back around. His face was red and puffy with anger as he glared at the five clearly drunk students before him.

Internally, they were mourning the lost whiskey. Even though there were two more bottles stowed away in Fedya's rucksack. On the outside, however, they were completely stoic. Or at least they thought they were. In their minds, they were the perfect picture of composed, unintoxicated seventh years.

However, that is not what Whitby saw. 

He saw five completely shitfaced seventeen years olds. Four faces were twisted into a model-like smolder with varying degrees of success. Fyodor looked like he could be on the front cover of one of those muggle magazines; Ophelia and Imen looked incredibly constipated and Fedya was stuck somewhere in the middle. 

Unlike his friends, Beau was smiling brightly at his fifth favorite professor. "Whitby!" He raised his arms in greeting, attempting to hug his old ancient runes professor. It was rather unsuccessful as he struggled to get to his feet. 

Though, it's not like Whitby would have given him the chance considering ninety-nine percent of his justified anger was directed toward Beau. 

The four watched as Beau stumbled out the carriage to try and hug the professor. Whitby was easily able to sidestep him and grab the back of his cloak before he went stumbling to the glass-covered ground. 

"Mr. Wesley." His voice held both anger and disappointment as he spoke to one of his star pupils. Whitby forcibly turned Beau to face him, turning his own back to the carriage. 

As Beau was reprimanded, the rest of the group made out a plan. Over the seven years they'd known each other, they gained a deep understanding of each other. Especially Fedya and Fyodor, who everyone suspected were connected on a telepathic level. Fedya picked up her rucksack slowly, carefully, hoping that the bottles of firewhiskey wouldn't clang together and alert Whitby of their impending escape. 

Ophelia opened the other door and they drunkenly stumbled out. Imen followed after Ophelia; the two girls snuck around the carriage while Fyodor tripped over his own foot and nearly face planted in the cold hard dirt. Fedya was able to grab the back of his robe before he ate dirt. The momentum pulled her forward, swinging her bag, and causing the remaining two bottles to clang against each other.

When Whitby turned around, they knew they were done for. 

Fedya and Fyodor met eyes with Whitby and Beau through the carriage. Whitby raised his hand, angrily pointing a finger at the Kyrgyz twins. "Don't you dare move—!"

"—RUN!" Imen rushed the side of carriage, grabbed onto Beau's wrist while Whitby was distracted and bolted towards the castle. Following her lead, Ophelia rushed passed the professor, barely dodging his reaching hand. 

Drunken laughs escaped the trio as they ran through the castle doors. The slapping of their feet against the hard stone floor echoed back at them as they ran down the seemingly endless corridors. Imen was vaguely aware of where she was and where she wanted to go. But that was about as far as any of their thoughts went.

None of them were sure of their plan and they didn't care. 

Their blood was filled with adrenaline and firewhiskey, keeping them warm and moving as the rushed through a random door. Imen had been sure it was the entrance to the Great Hall. She was wrong.

Instead of being met with the incredulous or laughing faces of their many peers and the disappointed looks of their professors, Imen, Ophelia, and Beau were met with the confused faces of the yet-to-be-sorted first years. 

The three seventeen year olds towered over the rather large group of eleven year olds. The wooden door shut itself behind them, closing the intoxicated seventh years into the antechamber. 

"Hello," Beau waved at the hundred or so children.

Most returned the wave and echoed his words. Some were shy, others confused, most laughing. There was one or two snotty looking kids that were somehow managing to look down their noses at the three despite the teens being a least a head or so taller than most of the kids. Especially Beau, who towered even over the two girls beside him. 

Imen and Ophelia joined in on the waving. Other than that, though, no one moved. They weren't quite sure what they were doing or what they were waiting for. 

"Are you taking us to be sorted?" It was a little girl with fire-red hair that spoke up from the crowd. 

"Uhh," Imen clapped her hands, looking over at Ophelia and Beau to see if they should actually walk the first years into the Great Hall even though that was definitely Professor McGonagall's job. Ophelia's curls moved wildly around her head as she shook it no. Beau, on the other hand, had the biggest grin on his face as he enthusiastically nodded his head. 

He was preparing to step forward and properly lead the kids—which would earn him a scolding from McGonagall and make him lose even more house points than however many Whitby already deducted—when rushed footsteps rang through the door they came through.

Assuming the worst—that Professor Whitby had already captured Fyodor and Fedya and was now after them—they three immediately rushed the crowd. Startling the first years, they scattered amongst the crowd. Crouching down to hide amongst the bodies.

Imen found Ophelia over by the entrance to the Great Hall crouching behind the little redhead who had questioned them earlier. Beau was a little harder to find, but she eventually spotted his fluffy head of hair squatting beside someone with the softest looking hair Imen had ever seen. 

"They're probably trading hair care routines," she joked to the random first year beside her. 

"Uhm, what?" 

"Huh?" Imen turned to face the young girl. She looked and sounded just like any other eleven year old. A small head, a smaller body, accompanied by a high pitched annoying voice. Her hair was braided tightly against her head leading to a large poof at the base of her skull (Ophelia's moms could never). "I like your hair."

"Oh," a slight smile took over her face. It was endearing, "Thanks." 

Imen was going to say more but before she could even begin the antechamber doors slammed against the stone walls, reverberating around the room and echoing harshly in their eardrums. The sound rattled around in her head as she roughly pulled the first year in front of her to block her from the scanning gaze of Professor Whitby. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Beau doing the same. Ophelia, on the other hand, dropped to the ground. 

Fedya and Fyodor weren't with the angry professor and Imen wasn't sure if that was a good thing. It could mean that they had gotten away scot-free. Or it could mean that Whitby had handed them off to Slughorn and McGonagall to deal out their punishments. Maybe that was why McGonagall had not come to get the first years yet. She was too busy ripping Fyodor a new one for getting wasted on the first day of school. 

Still in the doorway, his arms spread wide from roughly pushing the doors open, Professor Whitby's chest was heaving. He was a rather scrawny man, and chasing after five fairly fit teenagers probably wasn't the top item on his bucket list. His beady eyes scanned over the faces of the confused first years.

"Have any students come through here?" He asked, clearly out of breath. 

"Nooooooooo." Imen easily recognized Beau's voice coming out from behind a now cackling first year. He had drunkenly tried to raise his voice to sound like he hadn't gone through puberty yet. 

Whitby's head shot in the direction of the first year Beau was hiding behind. "Excuse me?"

"I said, no," the first year said, schooling his face much better than they had done back in the carriage. "We've been waiting for Professor McGonagall to come and sort us."

Almost like she was listening in, McGonagall took that moment to enter the antechamber. "Excuse me, Professor Whitby. They are waiting for you at the head table." 

"But—" he tried.

"These students need to be sorted, Professor Whitby." There was the no nonsense tone in her voice that Imen absolutely adored. She had spent her entire Hogwarts career trying to mimic and perfect it. After seven years, she's barely gotten close.

He didn't look happy about it, but, nevertheless, he walked out of the chamber, across the hall, and into the Great Hall. Before the doors shut behind him, Imen could spy see him angrily take a seat next to Professor Ismailova. She could also see Professor Slughorn drinking joyously and chatty with Dumbledore up at the teachers' table. With their Head of Houses and their parents there, Imen knew Fedya and Fyodor got away from Whitby's grubby little fingers. 

McGonagall faced the eclectic group of first years. There was a certain look in her eye as she gazed out along the crowd; Imen knew immediately that they'd been caught. 

"Mr. Wesley. Ms. Goings. Ms. Hedgepath," she called out their names but none dared to move. 

"We don't them," Beau said, again in his 'kid' voice. The first year in front of him had even tried to move his mouth along with Beau's words to make it seem like he was the one talking.

"Of course, Mr. Black." The twinkle in McGonagall's eye grew as she made eye contact with Beau who was peaking out from behind the Black boy. "My mistake." She scanned the crowd once more, making eye contact with both Imen and Ophelia, who had pushed herself up from the stone floor. "Please, get into a line so I can take you to be sorted."

The first years shuffled together, in no particular order so McGonagall could escort them into the Great Hall. Imen had a tight grip of the girl in front of her's cloak. Behind her, she could hear fast shuffling as Beau maneuvered his first year to stand behind them. 

"Pssst." Imen could feel Beau's spit hit the back of her neck. 

"What?" Crouch-walking was an odd experience and Imen could feel the odd looks she was getting from the ghosts that were still moving into the Great Hall. 

"Meet my new friend."

She huffed and with a roll of her eyes she turned her head slightly to look at the first year boy who had covered for them. "Hi."

"Sirius Black," he offered with a smile.

"Imen Hedgepath," she returned as they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall. 

"I'm Anais, by the way," the girl in front of her—Anais—said.

"Nice to meet you, Ana. Thanks for being my cover," Imen laughed slightly. "Now," her words were addressed to Beau, "How the hell are we gonna get to our tables?"

"You wanna make a run for it?"

"While everyone is looking at the first years? They're gonna notice."

"I don't think it's gonna matter," the boy behind Beau butt in, "You two and your friend up front aren't exactly blending in." 

"Points are being made," Beau said, no longer whispering. 

"Points are being made," Imen echoed in agreement. "Okay," she sighs and tries to discreetly slide over to the Ravenclaw table. Fortunately, the first years were led down the center of the Great Hall, between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff so she was able to sidestep squat before sliding onto a spot on the bench two giggling second years made for her. 

Ophelia must have realized the same thing, and much earlier than Imen and Beau, for she could already see Ophelia sitting comfortably at the Hufflepuff table with her roommate. 

Beau wasn't so lucky. The Slytherin table was the furthest away and completely blocked by Ravenclaw. In his firewhiskey brain, his only had two options. "Over or under?" He asked Sirius and the boy behind them.

"Over," they said together, excited to see his plan.

"Over it is." Beau let out a breath, and shook his arms loose, "Okay, let's do this."

He didn't stand up as he moved out of the line. Sirius and the other boy stopped the line and watched as Beau moved for a running start. It took less than a second for Imen to realize the plan and slide down the bench, ushering for the people across from her to do the same. They obliged, used to the antics of that particular friend group.

Beau let out another breath and before his sober mind could talk any sort of sense into him, he ran. Sirius and his new friend laughed, completely disregarding the sorting hat that had begun its song. Beau placed one foot against the bench. Winking at Imen, he pushed his other foot against the top of the table and did his best to launch himself over the table and the other bench. 

It looked like it was going well for him for a moment, until he fell to the ground and ate shit against the cobblestone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned to jump right in with the ghost and everything but then Fedya, Fyodor, and Ophelia showed up and took over. Next chapter is in founder's era but chapter four will have Imen interacting with her ancestor I promise :)


End file.
